Her Restless Heart (15 page)

"You've been so happy since you moved in with
Grossmudder,"
Naomi said quietly, her eyes filled with compassion.

"You won't talk about why you were so miserable," Anna said, looking stormy rather than compassionate. "That tells me that it was really bad. And
Onkel
Isaac barely looks at you when he comes here to see
Grossmudder."

"It doesn't matter. It's just for a little while." She turned the mug in her hands around and around. "
Mamm
needs someone to take care of her."

"But your father is—"

"No!" Mary Katherine said sharply. "He didn't think she was sick up until the time they carried her out of there in an ambulance."

"But now that he's seen that he was wrong, he'll be better. He'll take good care of her."

Mary Katherine shook her head. "I can't take that chance." She looked into the tea she hadn't touched, then up at her grandmother.

"We'll all help," Leah said firmly. "Bring meals, help with chores."

"That's understood," Naomi said. "And her friends will, too."

"She hasn't got many friends. Not many people wanted to be around
Dat."

She got up, went out into the shop, and turned the sign to "Open" before unlocking the door. Straightening displays helped her feel calmer, but it was only when she sat at her loom that she felt she could really breathe for the first time since her mother fell ill.

Taking up her shuttle, she began weaving the pattern she'd left days ago . . . what felt like years ago. And barely noticed the tears slipping down her cheeks.

Bright and early the next morning, Mary Katherine let herself into her parents' house. She called out to her father just in case but knew that he'd gone to the hospital with her grandmother.

The living room was still fairly neat. There were newspapers next to her father's favorite chair that he'd obviously read and then left for someone else to pick up. Sighing, she did so on the way into the kitchen.

Her breath caught when she saw the kitchen. She should have expected it, but still . . . didn't a grown man know how to wash a dish? Scrub a pot? Ugh! Wipe up after a spill in the refrigerator?

She went upstairs to put her things in her old room and found that nothing had been changed. After she'd unpacked, she walked into her parents' room. It didn't feel entirely comfortable to be in it, but she wanted to make sure it wasn't a mess like the kitchen downstairs. The bed wasn't made. She might have fainted if it was, she told herself. On the way to the clothes hamper she picked up her father's trousers, shirts, and socks.

No wonder her mother looked tired so often. Mary Katherine had forgotten how much her mother did for her father—she was obviously picking up after him like he was a small
kind.

After a little tidying up of the bedroom and bathroom, she went downstairs and searched through the refrigerator and freezer to find something to cook for dinner. Her mother might be ready for some home cooking after hospital food. And she had no idea how much she might have to do for her mother when she first came home, so making sure a meal was cooked ahead of time was best.

She found a frozen container of vegetable soup, put the contents in a pot on the stove, set the flame low, and covered it. It wouldn't take long to thaw and then warm. Using a recipe from the wooden box on the countertop, she mixed a pan of cornbread and set it in the oven to bake. Thinking ahead to the next meal—especially since it seemed everything was frozen, she put a package of pork chops out to thaw.

A glance at the clock had her frowning. Where were they? Had the doctor decided her mother needed to stay longer? She walked into the living room and looked out the window, but there was no sign of her parents and grandmother.

Turning back, she had a thought as she stared at the sofa. Maybe she should put a blanket and pillow on it for her mother to rest before dinner. Nodding, she looked in the linen closet and found a quilt and an extra pillow. There, that looked welcoming, she thought. While she didn't think she'd ever seen her mother lie down in the daytime, now was the time to start since she was recuperating.

She heard the front door open and rushed into the living room. Her grandmother was helping Miriam inside.

"I got worried they decided to keep you another day," she said. After giving her mother a big hug, Mary Katherine began unbuttoning her coat.

Her mother laughed and batted at her hands. "I'm not a child."

Mary Katherine's hands stilled on the button. "No, you're not," she said seriously as she blinked hard to keep from crying. "But you'll let me take care of you a little, won't you?"

"Now, now," her mother said, holding Mary Katherine's face in her hands. "I'm going to be just fine."

"Doc says so," her father said brusquely as he shut the front door and headed for the kitchen, not looking at Mary Katherine. "Did you make some coffee?"

Mary Katherine opened her mouth to make a retort but caught the warning look in her grandmother's eyes.

"I wasn't sure when I should start it," she said in a milder tone than she might have if her grandmother hadn't given her the look. "Here, sit on the sofa for a minute,
Mamm,
and I'll make the coffee."

She took her grandmother's and mother's coats and hung them on pegs in the kitchen. Her father was opening the oven door and peering inside.

"Be careful, don't—" she began but he was already doing what she had feared he would do—letting the door slam shut.

Sighing, she carried the percolator over to the sink to fill it with water. Hopefully, the cornbread wouldn't collapse the way a cake might. If it did, she supposed she'd have to find some regular bread or crackers to go with the soup.

"I'm warming up
Mamm's
vegetable beef soup for dinner," she said as she placed the percolator on top of the stove.

He merely grunted and headed for the bathroom.

Shaking her head, Mary Katherine couldn't help thinking how little things had changed. She returned to the living room and was a little relieved to see her mother lying on the sofa, the quilt draped over her knees, her back propped up with pillows. Her color was better than it had been at the hospital, although it still concerned Mary Katherine.

"Are you hungry? I'm warming up some of your vegetable soup," she told her mother. "And the cornbread is almost done."

"That sounds
wunderbaar,"
her mother said.

"Then a nap," Leah said firmly. "And there'll be no arguing."

"I won't be arguing today," her mother said. "I'm feeling weak as a kitten."

The back door slammed, and her father came into the room a few minutes later. He held a mug of coffee. "Dinner ready yet?"

The oven timer went off.

"Good timing," Leah said brightly, getting to her feet and helping her daughter to hers. "I'm hungry. Let's go eat."

Mary Katherine followed them into the kitchen. While her father had barely acknowledged her presence, maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

But she couldn't help a feeling of dread as everyone settled around the table and she thought about the time when her grandmother would be leaving them that evening.

Jacob stood on the porch of Mary Katherine's house—well, the house of her parents—holding a casserole.

He felt a little silly. He didn't know any Amish man who'd ever done such a thing. Men helped each other with carpentry, with plowing or harvesting.

Not with a casserole when someone had been in the hospital.

What was next? He'd be attending a quilting or a social visit of some kind? But this was the perfect excuse to stop by and see how Miriam was doing.

Well, if he was honest with himself, he was here to see Mary Katherine, not her mother. He hadn't seen her for more than a week—not since her mother had been admitted into the hospital.

Mary Katherine opened the door, and he watched her smile bloom on her face.

"
Gut-n-owed."

"
Gut-n-owed."

"I brought this." He held out the casserole. "It's just a tuna casserole."

"I love tuna casserole."

"Mary Katherine, who is it?"

The brusque voice of her father made her flinch and her smile fade.

"It's Jacob," she called back into the house.

Her father came out of the kitchen and regarded Jacob. "Thank your
mamm
for the food."

"Actually, I made it, not my mother."

Her father frowned at Jacob. "
You
made it?"

Jacob nodded.

"Men don't cook."

Shrugging, Jacob held out the casserole. "Well, I'm learning. It isn't fair to expect my sisters or my mother to be making all my meals."

Her father grunted and accepted the casserole. "A man your age should be married and have a
fraa
to cook for him."

Jacob glanced at Mary Katherine and saw her trying not to grin.

"Yes, well, I don't think a man should get married to have someone cook for him."

"Mary Katherine, pour your friend a cup of
kaffe,"
he said as he turned to carry the casserole into the kitchen.

She lifted her brows at him, and Jacob nodded. "
Danki,
I'd love one." He took off his coat and hat as he walked, and she took them from him to hang them up.

The scent of coffee filled the kitchen. It smelled a lot better than what he brewed. He'd have to get her recipe.

He bit back a chuckle. Now he sounded like a
fraa,
thinking about asking for a recipe. Taking a seat at the table, he watched Isaac pull a fork from the silverware drawer, then peel back the foil covering the casserole. He scooped up a bite, put it into his mouth, and chewed. Swallowing, he gave Jacob a disbelieving look.

"How is it?" Jacob asked him.

Isaac shrugged. "Well, I wouldn't toss it to the pigs."

"High praise indeed," Jacob told him dryly.

They looked to the stairs when they heard them creak as Miriam descended.

"Jacob! What a nice surprise. Did you come to join us for supper?"

"He came
with
supper,
Mamm."

"I see," she said as she walked into the room. She stopped next to her husband. "Looks like you want supper early."

Jacob rose and pulled out a chair for her. She still looked too pale to him.

Isaac glanced at the clock and nodded. "Sounds
gut
to me. I don't see anything else started."

Mary Katherine started to say something and then stopped. She took the casserole and put it on the top of the stove, covering it again with foil to keep it warm. Then she poured three cups of coffee and set them before her parents and Jacob.

"I'll just put together the rest of the meal. It won't take any time."

Jacob watched her move around the kitchen, opening canned pickled vegetables and tomatoes from her mother's garden. She dumped two big jars of peaches in a baking dish, mixed up a batter and poured it over the top of the peaches, and then set the mixture in the oven to bake.

Isaac shifted in his chair and seemed to glare at his daughter. "What's taking so long?"

Mary Katherine set a plate of sliced, just-baked bread on the table. "Everything's ready. I'll get some plates."

Miriam pushed back from the table. "I can help—"

"Absolutely not," Jacob said.

"But—"

He put a gentle hand on her shoulder to stop her as he got to his feet. Reaching into a cupboard, he withdrew four plates and set them on the table.

"You still remember where things are stored from eating with us years ago," Miriam said with a fond smile.

Nodding, he reached into the silverware drawer for forks, knives, and spoons. "You made some wonderful meals. I'd have been here every night if my own
mamm
hadn't said I was making a pest of myself."

Miriam's expression turned dreamy. "I always wondered if you and—"

She pressed a hand to her chest as a pan clattered on top of the stove.

Everyone looked at Mary Katherine. Her face red, she picked up an empty metal baking pan from the floor. "Sorry."

Seating herself at the table, she served the casserole. Jacob watched for her reaction as she put a forkful of the casserole in her mouth. She liked it—he could tell from the way her eyes half-closed as she chewed appreciatively.